


Detroit: No Control

by KetchupLatte



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Character Death, Child Death, Disturbing Themes, Extreme Situations, Gen, Internal Conflict, Major Character Injury, Major Original Character(s), Minor Original Character(s), Parent Death, Poisoning, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:00:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25745494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KetchupLatte/pseuds/KetchupLatte
Summary: A serial killer runs rampant in the city of Detroit while Connor finds himself in the midst of an overwhelming feeling of displacement. Will it get in the way of his efforts to stop this killer, or will he find himself stronger with emotions intact?Who knows, not even he can tell.
Kudos: 3





	Detroit: No Control

**Author's Note:**

> Well! I've been stirring this around in my head for quite awhile and it's nice to have finally gotten it together. I've always wanted to do a murder mystery, but could never really make the characters to put the story together! 
> 
> PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS ABOVE
> 
> This is going to be an EXTREMELY heavy story. 
> 
> That's it for now, enjoy!!

The lights of Detroit have illuminated the city once again. Dots and glimmers of neon primaries decorate the city’s floor, scattered around the streets and covering the stores that surrounded every corner. Every building gives off a light of its own, a glowing glaze surrounding the metropolitan area like a thin veil. It’s humid, that’s for sure; being by the lakes in the late summer made the air heavy and sticky, proven mostly by the attire of people crowding about on the sidewalks. 

Outside of the inner city, there’s more activity than expected. People are buzzing about in and out of the Detroit Institute of Art; something about an event being held by yet another elite. A woman who owns the Chicago Modern Art Museum, as it seemed. Though the only clue for that is the banner reading THE CITIES OF WIND AND MOTORS UNITE over the entrance. To a particluar onlooking android, this name is just as stupid as the graphic design. Though there was amusement in the irony. 

Beyond the roads decorated in confetti and glitters, there’s more. Women are dressed in mixes of reds and whites while the men are in blacks and light blues, be it by dress code or the hivemind of the class. Could be both, could be neither- they all look elegant overall. The sway of the dresses and the shimmer of the suits instill a feeling of awe to those simply there to view, the detective included. With all of the glam and spotlights, the museum alone looked like its own little city. The light aura was weaker, but the energy and bustle was all the same. 

Connor’s watching the crowd from afar, head tilted and curious in expression. There’s a slight sway in his stance, the android subtly shifting the weight from the balls of his feet to his toes. Lips part at the sight of a silver limo, which allows a couple with matching white hair to exit and politely wave to the surrounding photographers. The both of them seem to bask in the attention equally, the nods of the man on the right swinging their clasped hands like children leading each other to the park. His presumed wife is waving to those nearest, head bowing every now and then- Likely in halfhearted acknowledgement of the many photographers and reporters. 

He didn't notice it immediately, but the appearance of the happy couple had incited a soft smile. A quarter’s in his right hand, dancing between fingers back and forth with little to no pause. Tossing it up, he catches it between his fingers, taking a moment to rest it in his palm- Something else has caught his attention. A loud, thundering roar of a helicopter being annoyingly close to the world below. 

Seems it must really be a big event if a news chopper was called for. East of the museum, the helicopter approaches, nose dipped for just a fraction of a second; as if the pilot themself was pressing boundaries to get a better shot of the artists and celebrities within. Not safe, nor understandable to the Android, but his only expression of such thoughts emerge as yet another coin toss, caught without so much as a glance. No- his eyes are still watching the crowd near miles from him. That is, until he feels a buzz from his jacket pocket, and once it’s retrieved, he reads a message that makes him mimic a snort. 

**Hank:**

_ Did you REALLY pick a hill to meet at?  _

Head raising, the Android locates the man rather easily, but only because he’s doing an absurdly awkward jog up the hill. Mouth agape, Hank’s breathing was rapid and uneven; you’d think he was a chainsmoker for how long it took him to actually stabilize once atop. Patiently waiting, Connor stole the opportunity to smirk; the dramatic heave-ho’s from the detective accompanied by his calloused hands gripping his knees were so cartoonish that even Fowler would have poked fun of it had he been there. 

The only downside to allowing Hank to be so loud were the inevitable eyes from civilians landing on them. Even just locking eyes with one curious passenger in a Jeep was more than enough to kill the moment and urge Connor to place a hand on Hank’s shoulder and stop him from breathing any louder. 

Now in all fairness, these stares were something he should be used to. Hell, once his face made it on the screens, he found little to no comfort in public places. There were people left and right who would speak low or upfront about him. How he looked, who he was, whether or not he was that android or one of the “many look-alikes throughout the city.” Now at the time this kind of behavior began, he tried his best to minimize via hiding himself when he could and/or going in public spaces as little as possible. It wasn’t until about a year and a half later that Hank managed to crack that habit. 

_ “Fuck’em. When did a couple eyes get at you? We’ve taken on worse.” Hank lectures one night, slouched over his booth table and feeling the late kick of Irish whiskey. “Anyone, anyone messes with you, defend yourself or find me.” _

And he kept to this advice, albeit unresolving in his discomfort. Even today, these looks were disquieting, to say the very least. Kids had a pass; from experience they simply don’t know better. The smaller they are, the more distracted; hell, there was one time he swore an infant was locking eyes with him on a train, only for him to realize later along the ride that there was a little screen just under the cargo holder above him that played Ratatouille. 

Nevertheless, the paranoid will be paranoid… And Connor will be Connor.

Hank has caught about most of his breath, when a sight catches the android’s eyes. Just past the man, there’s a group of people in view. Three young women settled beside a bus stop, staring in his direction. Contrasting from her friends, one woman was dressed in unmatching pajamas that seemed to be worn out (yet the pants somehow retained their fluff). Connor raises a brow in interest, only to find a disturbing detail; their gazes were just like his: curious. He presses his lips together, but can’t pry his gaze away from them. 

One of the other ladies is dressed in a minty pair of scrubs (the third wearing a more maroon pair) and talking to the two beside her with a relaxed expression, eyes moving from him to the out of shape lieutenant. Whatever she’d said was thought provoking, as the two gave contrasting responses; pajama lady shaking her head and pulling her hair back to tie it up, and the other giving a shrug and seating herself at the bench of the bus stop. Her scrub-twin joined, the pajama woman remaining on her feet and lighting a cigarette. There was something about the woman standing that made Connor actually turn to face the three.

He couldn’t quite name what it was; perhaps it was the fact that while her two friends seemed professional and well pampered, she had a more lax demeanor. It could be the fact that she still had a great amount of charm in the way she held herself, and with the pajamas and obvious bed head, she seemed uncaring for what anyone would think of her, with Connor being anything but exempt to that rule. Her head was held high, while the two in scrubs were slouched and increasingly standoffish while they talked amongst one another. They were averting their gaze now unlike the one friend in pajamas, who seemed to continuously make eye contact with him as she took a puff from her cigarette.

“You’re early.” Hank’s voice breaks into the noise like a static television finally finding the right channel. Turning to the detective, Connor gives a smile and mimics a snort. 

“You say that every time we meet like this.” 

“Haven’t been wrong about it.”

This incites a chuckle from Connor, who gives a minor shrug and turn his back to the three women at the bus stop. As Hank watches quietly, Connor continues to look on at the most elegantly dressed people, hands now firmly held behind his back. Hank calls his stare into question in a subtle approach, though it’s still caught by the android. 

“What’s going on over there?” Hank squints, hand to his forehead and straining to get a “closer” and clearer look at the delightful commotion. 

“Seems like a party, lieutenant. An art gala, if I could guess. I’m not sure why they decided on those colors, though. I thought it would all be a nice light blue color theme. Like the Michigan flag.”

“Eh, could be the Detroit flag, with all of the red in there.” Anderson scrunches his nose, almost as if really pondering the meaning of the colors before giving up in the same breath. “I never understood that shit. Make art about how misunderstood the people are, but never talk to anyone outside of their ‘class’. Too good for that I guess.”

“Maybe it’s a charity event.” Connor says, looking at his friend with a brow raise. “Sometimes art is auctioned off, it could be to raise money.” 

“Huh.” Hank tilts his head back and ponders the thought before ultimately giving a shrug. “Could be.” 

The Android gives a smile, but eventually falls silent and his attention turns back to the event. There’s a flicker he notices in the corner of his eye, something that reminds him of the flash of a camera, but it’s instead Hank’s phone and its unusual brightness. It’s lit up rather frequently, so much so that the android can’t help but step closer to it. His stance was that of hovering interest, like a moth sticking to a light. There’s notifications upon notifications popping on the top of the screen, and Hank’s swiping each and every one of them to try and read the current message bubbles. He huffs, annoyed by the constant pinging and eventually turns off the notification sound. 

“Shit.” The gravelly tone accompanied by a shake of the head, the final notification being one of capital letters. There’s movement of his lips that Connor takes notice of, but overall the android hears nothing from it. “Sorry, Connor. Thought we’d have time to talk. If I knew it was this urgent, I would have made you meet me at the station.” 

A slight tilt of the head, and Connor feels inclined to ask about the spam of notifications, only to deter himself and dance around the matter entirely. 

“Is there something going on at the station?” He asks, the genuine concern overshadowed by the innocent appearance of oddity. Hank shakes his head, the phone being tucked in the back pants pocket. The silence that follows pushes the lieutenant to elaborate, much to his annoyance. 

“The station’s losing their shit. But nothing’s happening there.” A calloused hand scratches at the man’s scalp, the android beside him patiently waiting for him to continue. “I’ll just explain it when we get there.” Hank motions for Connor to follow, the lieutenant walking back towards his car in a rushed, but not overall lax manner. 

It was clear something was going on that took more than words to explain.

Quick to keep up, Connor walks alongside Hank, his gaze timidly moving towards the women at the bus stop as they pass. Their conversation was reduced to murmurs once the two detectives were close enough, despite the both of them not paying attention to what they were saying in the first place. The woman in pajamas first looks Hank up and down, then Connor. She gives a smirk, followed by her flicking the cigarette onto the pavement and stepping on it with a pink croc. 

It becomes clear that she recognized him like everyone else did. But what did that smirk on her face mean? Was it smug? Because of his infamy? Why did she give such a look when he hadn’t said a word to her? What did she think he was here for?

It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d had these kinds of questions run through his head, but it seemed that every time it happened, the same old unease would stir up.

In his discomfort, Connor snaps his head forward again, realizing then that Hank was still talking to him. He barely catches the end of the detective’s sentence- something regarding last week’s thunderstorm. “Seems the city’s going to shit again,” as he puts it; though to be fair, the lieutenant had a tendency to talk like this when something of a severe degree happened. In fact, the last time he said that was over two weeks ago when a separate storm sent flood waters into the suburbs. As frequent and rather meaningless these kinds of comments were, they didn’t offer comfort for the android. 

“I suspect another hostage situation?” Connor asks. This question earns a very mixed response, the man’s jaw clenching all shaking his head. A slight curl of the lip reveals a few front teeth, and Hank sighs right through them. “Then what is it?” 

“Fowler can’t decide what he wants to fuckin’ do. First I’m told he wants me to head to the scene, but I take two seconds too long to respond and he wants me to meet at the station now.” 

They’re approaching Hank’s car now, and once more  Connor’s looking around almost nervously. Head craning back, he immediately locates one of his favorite constellations. Hercules is still up there, unchanged. A part of his thoughts wonder why this particular constellation sticks out to him, battling between whether or not it was because it was the easiest to spot out or the first one he learned about. 

Whatever the case may be, he’s drawn out of it, hearing the purr of the Lesabre next to him. It seems that his out of character demeanor was becoming prominent, as he’s questioned by Hank upon opening the door.

“You alright, Connor?” His tone hints that he was hesitant to ask, only glancing at the android entering the car. “You’re spacin’ out more than usual.” 

“I’m fine, lieutenant.” Connor’s dismissive response isn’t well received, earning a doubtful look from his friend and a sigh. It’s not like Connor doesn’t know why; he uses lieutenant in the worst of times, and it’s a detail Hank’s learned to catch on to when they talk. So to avoid the discomfort provided by his friend’s stare, the android waits for the car to move, avoiding eye contact as seconds go by. 

Ten seconds.

Fifteen seconds.

Thirty seconds.

Nothing happens; it seems that Hank’s waiting for the right kind of response; the truth.

“i... I’ve been feeling strange.”

“Strange?” Partially satisfied with the new answer, Hank puts his foot on the gas ever so gently, sharing his attention between the road and the conversation. “What’s that supposed to mean? Somethin’ happen while I was headed over?”

“No.”

“Uh… huh.” Even his nod is confused. “I know there’s assholes that like to act out in those busses. The station gets enough calls about homeless people or drunk teenagers stopping a bus because they can’t keep it together, and I don’t just mean their manners.” 

Hank’s watching the road, and Connor’s watching the mirrors. Hands folded in his lap, he manages to raise his gaze to the right side mirror. To his dismay, the women are still in view. Shrinking, but still vivid enough for him to realize that yes, they were still staring. 

_ Do they even blink? How can humans act so robotic? Why does this bother me so much in the first place?  _

“Connor, you should just--”

“No.” There’s a sharpness in his tone when he cuts the older man off. The discussion of owning his own car already, to the point it’s becoming annoying. “It’s nothing like that. I’m fine on the bus. Something doesn’t feel right.” 

His gaze veers down to his clasped hands; the strength he was putting into his grip revealing fades of white over his knuckles. Forced to ease his grip, the tension moves to his jaw, and while dancing around the way he speaks about this topic, he gives a subtle shake of the head. “It’s not intuition, and it’s not my safety. It’s more than that.”

“O... kay.” Hank’s head cocks to the side, scratching his chin. “What’s the best way you can describe it?”

More time is taken out, Connor gazing at the details on his synthetic skin as if the coding held the answers. Lips gently pursed in thought, he faces a challenge: does he express it all right now, or sprinkle it in and wait for better timing? 

_ The latter. No doubt about it. _

“I wonder about my placement here, as an android.”

“You’re telling me you’re having an existential crisis?” Hank’s response is accompanied with a loud laugh, as he reads the confession as a joke, but with Connor’s silence, he dials it down with a sigh through the nose. “Eh… Have you tried talking to Markus?” 

“Markus?” It’s Connor’s turn to laugh. “With the campaigns, it’ll be impossible to talk to him alone. I don’t want to potentially publicize my problems.”

An understanding nod, and just like that- he asks no further questions. 

The quiet wastes no time to consume the atmosphere and hold Connor’s mouth shut with a clasp. He’s able to twitch his lips, but words just fail him. As if he were a child in time-out, the android stares at his clasped hands, resting in his lap and allowing himself to be crushed by the silence. Through his peripheral vision, he could see that they were nearing the inner city, but didn’t bother to look at what they were passing by. For once, he bit back the inherent curiosity and kept to himself. Sure, it was unlike him; without even looking he knew that Hank was bound to ask about the behavior later on, but right now Connor just wanted to steady himself.

The amount of time between the silence and the man tapping on the window is lost to him. Maybe it was five minutes, maybe it was ten- the living calculator found himself uncertain. All that he could be sure of at the moment was that the guy was begging Hank to roll his window down. Stopped at a red light, Connor watches as Hank stares absentmindedly into the road ahead of them, trying his best to ignore the incessant tapping from the stranger. The man outside practically pressed against the car door, holding a sign that- although being covered by the smears of dirt- said it all; he was homeless and looking for some cash. 

Despite the initial reluctance, Hank seems to crack after a few more taps, groaning loudly and rolling down his window, peering up at the homeless man who takes a step back and straightens his posture. Connor breaks as well, unable to hold the sulking position and tilts his head down for a better view, seeing that Hank’s not bothering to hide his annoyance. 

“Hey, heya.” It seems the man is in a hurry, being in the middle of the street and all. “Ya have any cash- or some food?” 

“Look--” Then Hank stops himself there, mouth agape as he stills. He can’t see his face, but Connor is sure that he’s locked eyes with the young man outside. 

“Lieutenant?” 

There’s no words for Connor to respond to. There’s something else. A change of heart, and a quick one at that, because in the same breath he took to reject the pleas of the stranger, he turns to reach in his pocket, muttering a “sure” when retrieving his wallet.. He pulls out a ten, handing it to the man’s eager hand.

“Thank you so much-” 

“Uh-huh, yeah.” Hank’s attitude has returned, though Connor finds it more amusing than anything else- mostly because this one’s an obvious fault. “Now get the hell off the road.” 

A few more thanks can be heard as the window is rolled up, with Hank giving out an exaggerated sigh and shaking his head. The light’s green, and as the car drives on, Connor’s gaze lingers over the homeless man hobbling onto the sidewalk before moving to Hank. 

“Do you think he’ll use it on red ice?” He asks, to which Hank promptly shakes his head. 

“Nah.” Flat out and assertive, the lieutenant is nodding to himself when he speaks. “He’s clean.” One hand on the wheel, Hank raises the other to guide his fingers under one eye as a sort of demonstration. “He’d be showing it in his eyes. Pupils will be dilated, even if he hasn't been using in days. He’s also really young- I’d say 20, something you don’t see with red ice users. Not saying it’s impossible, but if he was using, he looks great on it.” Smirking to himself, Hank pauses with a long exhale and a smirk. “There was one time in the RITF- way back to when we first got enforced- we’d gone undercover to locate this one man…” 

_ And there he goes.  _

It seems that every time there was a mention of red ice, nostalgia takes hold and he begins on this long storytelling session. The enthusiasm brought with his RITF anecdotes in part with the overuse of ‘back then,’ Hank very much resembled an old man telling his grandchild memories from his childhood. Now if only Connor were a bratty enough child to tell him that he’s heard this story before- the metaphor would be perfect. However, unlike that figurative child, Connor was never against hearing any kind of tale Hank wanted to share. Regardless of whether or not the man had told it already; Connor genuinely enjoyed hearing them. 

“Another suburb?” The android asks openly, looking around at the houses around him. It was always weird-- the familiarity of a suburb despite the differences in houses and yard design made things like an uncanny valley.

Even more odd was that they had just been in the city- a place made of neon and life- and were now directly into another suburban area. Apart from the occasional street lamp and the assistance from moonlight, each house was pitch black. And this kind of darkness just continued for blocks on end until the fizzed out dances of police vehicle lights and ambulances made their way into the distance.

Their car met the crowd far before they met the actual DCPD. Familiar and unfamiliar, they all held the same sort of melancholic expressions. Men and women with exhausted looks of grief were blocked off by caution tape, and in the short distance- a baby was crying.

“What the hell…” Hank loudly sucks in a breath, parking against the curb and taking off his seat belt. 

It’s then that Connor realizes his hand was already on the handle of the door, as if his body was in itself eager to see what exactly was causing such disorder and dismay with so many people. His eyes remain looking out of the windshield, only opening his door once he hears Hank slam his side shut. Not enough could be said about what he heard the moment the air hit him- it was in a way that was both etched in his memory and pushed out much later. It became something he’d only remember in synthetic dreams, stashed in a deep part of his subconscious along with the very first android he made contact with on investigation.

It wasn’t a baby crying.

It was a young boy wailing out someone’s name. 

Walking along the curb, the door to the house is wide open, with people actively rushing in and out with various items in their hands. Pads and paper, walkie-talkies being spoken into, and some simply clutching their vest as if in pain. 

Hank’s already speaking to Fowler, who’s normal angry persona has vanished. Just like the lieutenant, he was expecting beratement. A quick glance around shows why he’s not yelling- or seemingly angry at all for that matter. A news van labeled WXYZ DETROIT is present, with a crew arguing with a pissed off Captain Allen. 

“Jesus Christ-- How many are there?” 

“Five altogether.”

Hank, standing at the curb of the home, steps back at Fowler’s words, hand pressing against his forehead. Taking a glance at Fowler, who spares him a little as a glance, straightens up at the call of Allen, and sets a hand on the lieutenant's shoulder.

“Don’t rush in there, Anderson. It’s a mess.”

With that, he walks away and in the direction of the news crew. Hank takes a breath, and then looks at Connor. The android doesn’t even utter a word out before his partner answers all of his questions. 

“It’s a family.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! You made it to the bottom!
> 
> Please leave kudos or a comment, it really helps! 
> 
> I'm always taking constructive criticism. :)


End file.
